


Rhythm

by Philip_The_Poet



Series: So Artfully Instilled [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Humor, Depression, M/M, Poor Jemmy, Tea, The Depression Sweatshirt™, Vaguely angsty with a cute ending, jeffmads - Freeform, sassy james madison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philip_The_Poet/pseuds/Philip_The_Poet
Summary: James is having one of those days.





	Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all-- after finally completing my chapter fic and beginning to focus more on shorter projects in this 'verse, I can confirm that yes, I am most decidedly Jeffmads trash, and yes, I post most of my work at 5 AM after not sleeping.

Madison was having one of those days.

From the second his alarm went off at six-fifteen in the morning and his eyes squeezed tighter shut rather than prying themselves open, he knew he was having one of those days. James rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. The sun was already shining in through his window because _of course_ his mother had opened the blinds and his alarm was ringing and the birds were doing that thing where they chirp and chirp and chirp and chirp and the air felt unwelcoming and the bed was too hard and it was just one of those days.

_Fuck_ those days.

James's jaw unclenched and an excruciating groan unleashed itself to be lost in the pillowcase. He rolled onto his back again. There was a peculiar absence of motion inside him— where his stomach usually churned or his lungs usually swelled erratically, the only thing James could really feel was his heart thumping.

He forced himself out of bed, rolling over to the edge and holding his breath before lowering himself ungracefully to the floor.

_Fuck_ those days.

Madison took in the smell of the carpet. It probably could have used a vacuuming, but it was surprisingly pleasant. Hell, it was certainly not helping to boost his motivation; lying on the floor all day was already compelling enough.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ those days.

Oh.

Madison bolted up and sprinted for the bathroom.

_Fuck_.

He probably should've guessed he'd be sick. It usually happened when he was having one of those days.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck those days._

Rather than apologizing to the first trash can he'd reached, James stood up shakily and wiped his mouth.

The floor was looking more and more appealing with each passing second.

James sighed. With a math test second period and a new history unit starting, staying home was definitely not in the cards.

He trudged back to his room.

Like most people, Madison had ways of dealing with days like this. He tugged on the nearest pair of pants and dug through his dresser until he found the perfect garment for such a day: the black sweatshirt with the hole under one sleeve, the stretched-out hood, and, for whatever reason, the word "oak" written in faded lettering across the front. He reserved this sweatshirt for whenever he felt the way it looked, and today, he was certainly feeling sickly and unmotivated enough to wear it. James shot the ground by his bed a longing glance before taking careful steps towards the door.

Once downstairs, Madison set a pot of water to boil and expertly ignored his siblings while getting out two teabags. Since coffee was out of the question given his medical track record and the nature of his daily medicine intake, tea was usually Madison's go-to pick-me-up when he needed something.

Even with the fifteen minute delay in his schedule, James managed to pack his bag, brew his tea, take his meds, brush his teeth, and pull on the sneakers he had neglected to untie the day before, all with three minutes to spare before the bus came. James stared at the pavement beneath his feet and busied himself with thoughts of how useful coffee would be until that familiar yellow cage on wheels huffed and churned its way down his street to the end of his driveway.

Madison dragged himself up the steps leading into the bus.

His head already throbbed.

_Fuck_ those days.

 

 

 

"Your backpack is unzipped," James Monroe looked at Madison with disdain.

The latter shot him an unappreciative look. "Thanks."

Monroe shrugged. "I just didn't think you'd want your books to fall out."

It was chemistry first period, and _of fucking course_ the first face Madison would see at school all day was Monroe's. They had an uneasy relationship; Monroe had some deep-rooted grudge against Thomas Jefferson that, by close association, rendered Madison unfit for proper respect or treatment. Monroe wasn't the type Madison _wanted_ a friendship with, per se, but the petty jeers and taunts he frequently received from him weren't exactly ideal, either. So Madison supposed they were at a sort of checkmate.

"Is that coffee?" Monroe peered over at Madison's travel mug suspiciously. That was another issue— Monroe was constantly suspicious of him and Jefferson, often for no good reason.

"No," Madison scowled bitterly, popping open the lid, "I have enough heart palpitations already, thank you."

"So that's your medicine?"

"No. Tea." Madison flushed.

"Tea?" Monroe snorted. "What are you, ninety?"

"I'm at about a hundred and one as we speak."

Monroe squinted at him. "Years? You're, like, twelve."

"No. Degrees." Madison stiffened. "I'm sixteen."

"You found the fountain of youth too soon then," Monroe smirked, "You look ten."

"You're about a four, yourself," Madison deadpanned.

That about shut him up and gave Madison the freedom of silence he was aiming for. The bell rang, marking the beginning of class, and the reprieve from obligatory conversation was like a breath of fresh air to James. He took a swig of his tea and hoped the monotony of the class would soothe his headache and provide him with some distraction. And, as the room eased into a lecture, this was looking rather achievable.

That was when Madison felt a tug at his sleeve.

"Hatter," Monroe hissed. Madison cringed at the nickname. It was a favorite of anyone who enjoyed taunting him, very cleverly derived from "Madison" to "Mad hatter" to just "hatter".

Madison shut his eyes and rolled them under his eyelids in the ultimate display of exasperation. He was surprised he had the energy for this.

"Hey, Mad hatter, your shoe's untied."

Madison turned to stare wearily at the other boy. "Thank you. I suppose you were scared I'd trip while sitting at a desk."

Monroe raised his eyebrows. "God. Who pissed in _your_ dainty tea?"

Madison turned away without another word. _Damn_ , he was drained. If people would just leave him _alone_...

"Geez. Cheer up," Monroe shook his head disbelievingly.

This scrutiny was about the last thing Madison needed.

_Fuck_ those days.

 

 

 

"No headphones?"

Madison didn't bother glancing up from his notebook. "No staying in your own lane?"

Hamilton held up his hands in surrender. "Yikes. Guess you're feeling sharp today."

"Perfect timing," James said, scratching out the botched variable in the math problem he had been struggling with, "Considering I don't think you've ever seen me look duller."

Hamilton shrugged with a playful smirk. "I don't think you look _that_ different from how you usually do."

"Awesome. Wow. Thank you."

"So." Alexander dragged out the chair next to James.

Apparently sitting alone at a table in the library during study hall with his head stuck in a math textbook wasn't enough of an indicator that he did not want to be disturbed. Maybe he _should_ have worn headphones.

Madison did not reply.

"So," Hamilton persisted, "You're off your game today. I mean, you're _usually_ sick, and you _usually_ look like your dog just died, but you don't _usually_ fight back when I make a joke at your expense."

Madison shrugged. "And you aren't _usually_ perceptive."

"Ouch."

"Sorry."

Hamilton peered over at Madison's travel mug. "Tea?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Even James had to admit this was a weak response, but it probably wasn't as weak as he was. His tea was unappetizingly lukewarm by now, but he downed another gulp of it.

"That's Lafayette's catchphrase," Hamilton noted. He picked up the spare pencil next to Madison. "You should try coffee."

James nearly snorted, though his expression was humorless. "I don't think I need another catalyst for dying."

"I have a mug or three every night," Hamilton scribbled on the corner of the table. "It's really good for keeping you awake if you have enough."

"Mm. Sounds like the drinkable version of remembering every embarrassing thing I've ever done."

"That's a way to describe it," Alexander mused. "So how are you feeling? Need a doctor? Do you think you'll be featured on _Mystery Diagnosis_? I met this guy once—"

"I don't mean to be rude." James pressed three fingers to his temple. "But. Can you go away. Please."

Hamilton shot him a testy look. "I was just getting to the good part about the plague."

"I don't want to hear it unless you're my doctor and you're telling me that I contracted it."

"Sweet Jesus." Hamilton stood up, tucking Madison's pencil behind his ear without a second thought. "Cheer up."

James paled, turning back to his notebook.

_Wait_.

He reached in his bag and quickly pulled out his tangled earbuds, just for good measure.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ those days.

 

 

 

Finally Madison could enjoy some damn peace and quiet.

Well, it was more like he could enjoy being a comfortable distance away from the chaos and noise of the rest of the lunchroom. But hell, he'd settle. And, without the distraction of eating, it was an almost-pleasant break from the day.

Until.

"This seat taken?"

Madison closed his eyes. A moment's preparation was necessary before he was properly prepared to even acknowledge the speaker, so when he turned around, Aaron Burr had already been standing with his lunch tray for a full thirty seconds.

"No."

Burr smiled, dropping his tray onto the table beside Madison and taking a seat on the bench. "Thanks."

Madison barely nodded. He went back to staring at the clock in total silence.

"Um." Burr cleared his throat.

Madison glanced at him.

"Are you... Like..." Burr turned his wrist so his hand rotated in a questioning circle. "Hungry? Or something?"

"No."

"Hm." Burr jabbed at a piece of overcooked farfalle. "Okay."

And back to wordless clock-watching it was.

Until.

"You're pretty original, huh."

Madison squinted at Burr. "No."

"I mean," he continued, raising an eyebrow the slightest bit, "You march to the beat of your own drum. I guess a lot of people don't notice."

James shook his head.

Burr shrugged.

James had finished all his tea an hour ago.

Burr kept his head down over his tray.

James watched the hand on the clock that counted seconds.

"You alright?"

Madison turned to face him blankly. "Yeah."

"Okay." Aaron furrowed his brow. "Well. Try and cheer up a little if you can."

Madison stared at him as he stood with his tray and walked away.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck those days._

 

 

 

All-out war had broken out.

Madison's stomach churned, echoing with noises that bore a striking resemblance to nuclear warfare (or whale calls).

At least it was last period and he had the house to himself for the afternoon once he got home; however, this assurance did little to motivate James to pay any attention whatsoever to the Latin lesson he was now sitting through. Instead, Burr's words played through his head.

_You march to the beat of your own drum._

Hell, whatever that guy was on, Madison wanted some. In what world did _he_ march to the beat of _any_ drum?

Maybe that was it.

This was all about rhythm.

Well, if there was one thing James lacked, it was rhythm.

Or properly functioning organs. Or social skills. Or decent mental health. Or perhaps the will to live.

But _rhythm_.

Everyone around Madison had _rhythm_. They were perfectly, positively, and perpetually okay, and they had _rhythm_. They woke up in the morning and felt normal. They got dressed in the morning based on what matched their new shoes, not what matched their new wave of self-loathing. They came to school and sat with their friends and chatted at lunch. They hung out after school. They had _rhythm_.

Madison had never had rhythm. He'd never marched to anything and he'd never had rhythm. It tends to be hard to march to a solid beat when not even your heart rate is consistent.

He had no beat. No melody.

And here he was during the last class of the day, waiting and watching the hand on the clock that counted seconds because maybe that would give him something to count on, too.

Oh, cheer up.

_Fuck_.

 

 

 

Somehow, after an excruciating last period and a particularly unbearable bus ride home, James had made it back.

He jammed his key in the lock, turning it with all his force, and— _finally_ —he stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

He sank to the hardwood floor.

Madison was having one of those days.

Was it one of those days? Was it _really_ much different from all the other days?

No.

It wasn't one of those days. It couldn't be. _Every_ day was beginning to feel like one of those days. He woke up in the morning and felt actively disappointed. He got dressed in the morning based on what matched his new wave of self-loathing, not what matched his new shoes. He dragged himself to school and sat alone. He came home after school and hid all over again.

No rhythm.

He had no beat. No melody.

No.

It was _every day_ and Madison was _so fucking sick of it_. It was impossible to write it off as just a mood— it was constant and it was always there. It was suffocating. But there was nothing he would have liked more than to just be free of it. There was nothing he would have liked more than for it to just be a mood. There was nothing he would have liked more than for it to just be one of those days.

But it was so much more. It was _so much more_.

There was a knock at the door.

If Madison had been upright, he would have jumped in surprise, but in his current position— face down on the ground —it was more of a fish-out-of-water motion than anything.

Another knock.

As quickly as he could manage, James hauled himself up, trying and failing to take a deep breath before turning the knob.

"Hi."

James blinked.

Jefferson stood on his doorstep.

"I passed your math class today." Thomas scratched the back of his neck, his lips stretched in a lopsided smile. "I would've stopped in, but you were taking a test or something. But, uh..."

James stepped aside wordlessly to let Thomas in.

"I saw you were wearing that sweatshirt." Jefferson gestured to Madison's torso. "You always wear that sweatshirt when something's wrong. And you had that travel cup thing you put your tea in sometimes. And that look on your face. And I figured you'd probably skipped breakfast, and I figured now you'd..." Thomas split into a full grin. "Like a little company, maybe?"

Madison stared at him.

"Oh!" Jefferson looked down at the plastic bag hanging off his wrist. "I stopped by the drugstore on my way over. Bought you a shitty romance novel and a candy bar. I prob'ly should have made you a sandwich or something, but this's faster and tastes a hell of a lot better. So..."

Madison stared at him.

Thomas seemed to notice his expression. "Do you need anything else, or...?"

James shook his head.

He launched himself forwards.

He wrapped his arms around Jefferson.

"No." Madison gripped the back of Jefferson's shirt. "Just having one of those days."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Few things make me happier than lovely comments and kudos. I'd love to hear from you! <3


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